


Positive Reinforcement

by dracusfyre



Series: Operant Conditioning [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dark!Bucky, Dark!Tony, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Neither is Bucky, Prompt Fill, Tony is really not nice to Steve, Tumblr Prompt, kind of a recovery fic, still blaming tumblr, working title Sociopaths in Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2018-11-15 15:36:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11233983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracusfyre/pseuds/dracusfyre
Summary: Tumblr prompt: Prompt: Winter Soldier goes to kill the Starks, but (Hydra) Tony is with them. “Mission compromised. Report to handler Stark for punishment”.  Prompts found athttp://imaginetonyandbucky.tumblr.com





	1. Prologue

_December 16, 1991_

            The handler raised his head from what he was working on when the asset was escorted into his lab.  He waived away the soldiers as the asset stopped exactly six feet away from his handler and looked at the ground.

            “Kneel,” the handler said calmly, straightening the papers he was looking at with a brisk tap and returning them to their folder.  The asset dropped to his knees and the handler stood and came closer. 

            “Hands on your thighs.” Head still bowed, the asset obeyed.  Dried blood was still an ugly splatter across the silver metal of his left hand and dust from a gravel road made his black boots grey.

            The handler raked his fingers gently through the asset’s hair.  “Mission report.”

            “Targets eliminated.  Package acquired. Mission compromised.” The assets voice was rough with disuse and dry with thirst.

            The handler fisted his hand in the asset’s hair and wrenched his head back. Any noise the asset would have made died in his chest as pale blue eyes flew open to meet brown. The asset’s hands didn’t so much as twitch in his own defense.  “Describe ‘mission compromised.’”

            The asset’s eyes flickered to the folder on the desk and back.  “Target recognition prior to elimination.”

            “And?”  His handler said calmly.

            “And there was a camera present on scene.”

            “Before or after?”

            “Sir?”

            His handler’s hand tightened, pulling his head back until he was almost off balance. The asset was acutely aware of his bared throat as his heart started beating faster, but the only noise he made was a sharp inhale.  “Did you discover the camera _before_ or _after_?”

            “After, sir.  It was destroyed.”

            “After? Sloppy work.  It’s like you’re trying to get caught.”  The handler leaned over until he was all the asset could see.  “Are you trying to get caught?”

            A single sharp quake shook the asset at the thought of _caught_ and he couldn’t look away. _Caught_ meant cages, meant pain, but most importantly, caught meant being taken away from his handler. “No, sir. Never,” he said, and didn’t dare blink.  He was unconsciously holding his breath as he searched his handler’s eyes for any sign of disappointment or displeasure.

            But after a long moment the pain in his scalp eased and his handler’s touch gentled, fingers soothing the sting.  “Good.  The tapes from the camera were recovered, so there was no harm done. Overall a very successful mission.”  Suddenly his handler’s hand fell away, and the loss of his touch hurt worse than anything. Chin down, the asset watched his handler through his curtain of hair as his handler returned to the desk.

            “He’s awfully…obliging, isn’t he?”  There was a man on the other side of the desk from his handler, someone the asset hadn’t noticed until he spoke.  There was a note in the man’s voice that made the asset want to tighten his hands into fists, but he knew better than to move without his handler’s permission.

            “Quite,” his handler said curtly, apparently not liking the tone either.

            “Are you sure we should be discussing this in front of…him?”

            “What does it matter? He won’t remember it after tonight.”

            “Hmm.” The man tapped a finger on the metal briefcase sitting on the corner of his handler’s desk, the briefcase the asset retrieved on the mission. “Do you know why Howard was transporting these in the middle of the night?”

            “Clearly he suspected something, since he neglected to inform me of his intentions.  But then, my father was growing paranoid in his old age.” A thread of amusement entered his handler’s voice.  “I think he was afraid someone was spying on him.”

            The man chuckled but the tone was off.  Hidden by his hair, the asset curled his lip in a silent snarl.  “You don’t say,” the man said.  “Who could that have been?”

            The smile his handler offered at that was cold and sharp, the brief flash of amusement already gone.  “Indeed.” He pushed his chair back from the desk and stood again. “Well, this has been a pleasure, Mr. Pierce, but as you can imagine, tomorrow is going to be a very hectic day.”

            “I’m sure, I’m sure,” the man said smoothly.  “And what will you be doing with the asset after tonight? I would imagine he’s going to be a liability moving forward, at least until the furor dies down.”

            The asset was so highly attuned to his handler that he could all but feel the air get colder as he grew angrier at the insinuating tone in the man’s voice.  “JARVIS, please make sure our guest returns to his vehicle without any interruptions.  He has a long drive ahead of him.” His handler’s smile was all teeth, and the asset noted with satisfaction that the man was starting to fear-sweat.

            As soon as the door closed behind the man his handler growled deep in his throat, the same noise the asset had been wanting to make ever since the man first spoke.  The asset heard his handler’s footsteps come closer until his shoes were in the asset’s line of sight.

            A gentle hand under his chin tipped the asset’s head up and lips brushed his forehead, dry and warm. The asset let his eyes drift closed as calloused hands smelling of grease brushed his hair back and framed his face. “You did very well tonight,” his handler’s voice said gently. Pleasure, thick and sweet, flooded the asset’s veins and he relaxed into his handler’s touch with an almost soundless sigh.  “Do you remember what my father said to you? The target recognition?”

            The asset didn’t realize he was frowning until his handler was soothing the lines between his eyebrows with his thumb.  “The target said, ‘Bucky.’”

            “Do you know what that means?”

            “No, sir.”

            “Good. That’s good.  Are you ready?”

            The asset nodded once.  What was coming next was not pleasant, but what came _after_ was…life. Was all the asset ever knew or wanted to know of joy.  He opened his eyes to watch his handler’s face as he put something in his ears, trailing his eyes over his handler’s thick brown hair, eyes that could be cruel or kind or both, the stubble that was just starting to cover his jaw.  The asset ached to touch but that wasn’t allowed, not yet.

            “Eyes on me,” his handler said.  “Try not to close them.” Then suddenly there was a high pitched whine that quickly went almost out of the asset's advanced range of hearing, leaving behind an aching pressure in his head. The asset struggled to keep his eyes open on his handler’s, trying to focus on the warmth of the hand on his face as the pain intensified.  “You’re doing so well,” his handler crooned, so difficult to hear over the sound coming from the device in his hand. “So good, so good for me.” The asset wanted to shake his head like a dog hearing a high pitched whistle, wanted to press his hands to his eyes that felt like they were going to pop from the pressure.  He felt something warm start to trickle from his ear.

            Then as suddenly as the pain started it was gone, leaving behind a phantom ache in his jaw from where he’d been clenching his teeth to avoid making noise.  His handler looked so sad if he made noise during the painful part. The asset relaxed again with another sigh, and his handler was brushing light kisses across his forehead, his temple, his cheek, while a warm hand was squeezing the back of his neck lightly. Then his handler’s voice was whispering the words in his ear, the ten words that were just between them, and with each word bliss spread, until the asset forgot thirst, forgot hunger, forgot pain, there was only his handler and his handler’s smile, his handler’s voice, his approval.

            Tony helped the asset to his feet, smiling indulgently when the asset swayed, eyes glassy from the rush of serotonin and oxytocin in his system.  He sat the asset down on the couch and cleaned the cybernetic arm carefully, making sure no blood remained between the articulating plates and staying close while the bonding hormones worked their magic.  He kept a running stream of nonsense commentary, mostly praise, while he stripped off the asset’s gear, prepping him for the cryogenic procedure that would happen later. The whole time the asset’s eyes followed him, as adoring as any newlywed on their honeymoon.

            Tony could only feel smug at the evidence of his superior methods.  The chair the Russians had sent along with the asset was about as necessary as a bicycle for fish; why inflict so much pain when you could bind him with pleasure, instead?  Tony had also taken the time to reprogram the asset’s trigger words; anyone attempting to use the words in the little red book Tony had hidden carefully but not _too_ carefully would be unpleasantly surprised at the result.

            He got comfortable on the couch and urged the asset to lean back against him, wrapping his arms around him until the asset let his head fall back against Tony’s shoulder.  He started running his hands through the asset’s hair and kept one hand as a solid anchor on his chest.  “One day I hope you can understand the service you’ve done to me today,” he mused.  

            The asset felt a brief moment of confusion; what service? The asset couldn’t remember anything but the happiness of being near his handler, so he let the moment of confusion float away.  “One hour’s work and I went from an irresponsible college student to one of the richest and most important men in America. Because of you,” he said, tapping the asset on the chest.  The asset turned his head to rest his forehead on Tony’s jaw but said nothing, too well trained to speak without a direct question.  “You’re mine,” he whispered to the asset, and the asset nodded sleepily.  “No one will ever take you away from me, and together we’re going to take over the world.”


	2. Afghanistan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I am apparently helpless in the face of readers' requests, here's more!

_January 23, 2002_

            The asset didn’t know why he always felt relieved when he woke up to see his handler. Sometimes he pondered the feeling; relief would imply that he feared someone else would be there when he opened his eyes, but even when he thought hard enough to give himself a headache he only ever remembered the brown eyes of his handler.  This time, though, he didn’t have time to think about it because he could tell something was different.  His handler didn’t linger once he realized the asset was awake; there was the barely-there touch of a hand along his cheek and he was gone. The asset closed his eyes and traced his handler’s movements around the lab by the sound of his feet on the cement and the sound of him muttering under his breath.

            Something was wrong.  His handler was agitated, and the thought made the asset’s heart beat faster in fear and anger and the anticipation of violence.  He willed his body to shake off the lingering lassitude of cryo sleep, trying to move his fingers, his toes, anything.  Only the metal arm responded but it was still bound, so while he could make a fist it only whirred in a futile effort to break free.

            But it was enough to get his handler’s attention.  He reappeared in the asset’s field of vision, looking concerned.  “What’s wrong?” The asset felt his handler run hands quickly over him, checking for wounds, and then he was turning away again to check the readouts on the cryo machine.  The asset tried growled in frustration, but even his vocal cords were still unresponsive.  All he managed was a high whine.  “Shhh, calm down, calm down.  It’s ok, you’re ok, I’m ok. Everything’s ok, don’t hurt yourself.” The asset felt fingers raking through his hair, brushing it behind his ears, patting him on the chest.  He searched his handler’s eyes for a moment before he let himself relax in relief, reassured that there was no immediate danger.

            “You could tell I was upset, couldn’t you?”  The asset grunted in confirmation, frowning.  “Yeah, I’m…hmm, what’s the word.  Pissed? Livid, with overtones of suspicious? I don’t know, whatever.  This mission is going to be a little different, my friend.”  The asset heard the scrape of a metal chair on cement and then his handler was sitting next to him, elbows resting on his knees and fingers scratching at his goatee.  The asset could hear him drumming his other fingers on the edge of the cryo tube and found that he could at least turn his head to face his handler properly.

            The asset was rewarded with a small smile when their eyes met, small wrinkles appearing at the corner of his handler’s eyes as they warmed.  “For the next few days, you’re going to be my bodyguard.” His handler chewed on his lip with indecision.  “I don’t know if this is the best idea, but I’m pretty sure Obie is setting me up and I can’t trust anyone else.”

            The asset felt a warm glow of pride. _Trust._   _Friend._ He flexed his metal hand again, ready to fight and kill and die for that trust.  His handler must have seen that on his face because there was another smile and his handler was cradling his cheek, hand impossibly warm. “I hear ya, champ.  We’ll talk, but let’s get you situated first.”

            His handler stood and held out a hand to help the asset sit up, muscles still stiff and uncooperative.  “Here you go. Bottoms up.” His handler gave him a tall glass of thick green smoothie, smelling of grass with overtones of sweetness.  The asset remembered enough to make a face as he took the glass.  “I know, I know.  I got one too,” his handler said, holding up a smaller glass of the same green sludge.  “It’s good for you.  Finish it and then I have the good stuff.”

            ‘The good stuff.’  The asset processed those words while he drank and came up with several memory fragments.  Hot brown sweetness that warmed him up from the inside out; ‘ _tis the season_ ,’ his handler had said, and there had been snow on the ground during the ensuing mission.  ‘ _I don’t like to drink alone_ ;’ that ‘good stuff’ had burned all the way down his throat but not unpleasantly.   The memories helped him ignore the taste as he finished his glass.

            “Good job,” his handler said, and gave him a flimsy paper cup that was hot and smelled like…The asset knew this smell.  He took another deep inhale as he searched for the word.  This was – “A mocha latte. Coffee and chocolate, life doesn’t get much better.  Let me know what you think, I’ll be right back.”

            The asset took a careful sip and then took another.  The cup was empty by the time his handler returned, and the asset was staring into the cup mournfully.

            “Liked that, did you?” His handler laughed as he threw the empty cup in the trash.  “I’ll remember that.  Alright, warmup exercises, let me see ‘em.”

            His handler observed critically as the asset went through a full set of calisthenics, vaguely remembering an injury from the last mission. When he was finished his hand drifted to his side.

            “You remember that, do you?  Yeah, you were shot last time you went out.” His handler lifted up the simple white shirt the asset was wearing and examined the skin right above his right hip.  Looking down, the asset could see a small scar; it looked like it had been healed for years.  “You want to talk about fucking pissed; by the time I was done with them you entire support team wished that they’d been shot instead.  Looks like you’ve fully healed though.  Self-assessment?”

            “Fully operational.”

            “I agree.  Kneel, hands on thighs.”

            The asset obeyed with pleasure, feeling the last shreds of the cryo-induced mental fog clear as the ritual began. He took a deep breath and focused on his handler, watching fondly as he ran his hands through his hair, looking like he was trying to collect his thoughts.  “You will accompany me to Afghanistan; we leave tonight on a private plane. In Afghanistan you will protect me from all harm.  Assume everyone we meet is a potential hostile.  Mission is complete when we return here. Confirm mission.”

            “Mission confirmed.”

            “Any questions?”

            “No, sir.”

            His handler nodded once.  “The complications to this mission are that you will be following me everywhere, which means that you will be engaging with civilians that I would prefer remain unaware of your true capabilities.  So you will only speak when absolutely necessary to the success of the mission and avoid drawing attention to yourself. Confirm mission parameters.”

            “Mission parameters confirmed.” 

            “Your gear is going to be a little different this time because you’ll have to fit in with the civilian contractor crowd.  You know where the weapons locker is; get dressed and take what you think you’ll need.”

            “Yes, sir.”  The asset’s mind was on fire as it stripped quickly and redressed in the clothes provided, assessing mission variables as he went over to the weapons locker.  An hour later, he returned to his handler, stopping exactly six feet away.

            His handler looked up at him and laughed.  “You’re going to Afghanistan as my bodyguard, not to singlehandedly overthrow the government.”

            The asset only raised an eyebrow and set the grenade launcher down, leaving him with only four pistols, two assault rifles, five grenades, and eight knives.  Picking them out had been the first fifteen minutes; the other forty-five had been situating them to make sure that he didn’t make noise when he walked.  He crossed his arms and looked down at the concrete between his handler’s feet.

            “Alright, alright, don’t pout.” His handler kicked a chair out from under the desk. “Sit. I gotta clean you up a bit.”   

            The asset sat still as a stone while Tony shaved his face, and when he was done Tony couldn’t resist the impulse to run his fingers over that strong jaw again, over skin that was smooth and slightly cool.  Not for the first time, Tony wondered where in the hell Hydra had found such a pretty specimen; freshly shaved, with his hair pulled away from his face, he looked impossibly young, not a year older than when Tony had first laid eyes on him.  The asset stared up at him trustingly as he ran his thumb idly over his jaw, almost touching the tantalizing line of the asset’s mouth.  Now, as always, he was tempted to press his lips to the corner of that mouth, to tilt his head and see if he could chase the taste of the mocha from the asset’s tongue.   Under Tony’s gaze the asset held his breath, eyes flickering down to his mouth and back up.  Tony badly wanted to take that as an invitation but instead took a deep breath and stepped away.

            “For this mission, you’re going to need a name. Any ideas?”

            The asset’s exhale as Tony stepped away was almost silent. “Bill,” he said after a moment.

            That surprised another laugh out of Tony.  “I’m not calling you Bill.  How about…James?” Tony watched the asset carefully but there wasn’t even a flicker of recognition.

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Alright, James.  For the duration of this mission, you will address me as Mr. Stark and you will answer to James.”

 

            At the end of the demonstration of the Jericho missile, his handler was grinning and shaking hands and passing out alcohol, but the asset could tell that he was livid.  Behind the wraparound sunglasses and shemagh scarf covering his face, the asset counted out the number of military members in attendance and calculated how to kill or incapacitate them all with the least expenditure of munitions. None were wearing protection for some reason; as they lined up next to the mobile bar the asset figured he could kill at least three of them at one time with a high caliber bullet, especially at this range.  Half would die before they could even draw their service weapons.

            “James,” his handler said quietly. He tilted his head to hear his handler without taking his eyes off the crowd.  “We’re about to head back to base in a convoy.  This is Obie’s last chance to make a move, so stay alert.  This whole fucking trip was a set-up, I knew it.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            The asset did not like at all that he was not the one driving the vehicle, but the alternative - leaving his handler unguarded - was worse so he sat in the back with his handler squeezed between him and a soldier.  He was entirely unamused when the soldiers accompanying them engaged his handler in conversation so he glared at them from behind his sunglasses until they turned around to watch the road in silence.  The asset's nerves were drawn tight with anticipation, so when an explosion took out the vehicle in front of them he was almost relieved.  As the soldiers poured out to engage with the enemy, the asset shoved his handler to the floorboard, away from the windows, and climbed over the seat to take the wheel. He gunned it and the three soldiers that had been using it for cover scrambled to get behind rocks.

            “Brace yourself,” the asset growled, and went off the road.  The vehicle bounced and scraped over rocks and bushes as they plowed through the terrain away from the road and the possibilities of landmines.  Around them explosions rocked the vehicle and the asset whipped the wheel back and forth, trying to send up a cloud of dust to cover their movements from the people aiming RPGs at them.  Unfortunately, that meant that he didn’t see the vehicles coming up beside them until the HMV was tossed sideways and slammed into the vehicle on the other side.  His handler made a bit off noise of pain followed by a string of curse words, and the asset felt a throb of fury.

            He braked just enough to be able to turn the wheel and strike one of the vehicles behind the rear tire, the hitting the gas to T-bone it, dragging it across the terrain until one of its tires hit a rock and it flipped over. The asset eyed the other vehicle as it flew past them and started to circle back, calculating the time he had to eliminate the enemy combatants in the first vehicle before the second could return. “Stay down,” he ordered as he jumped out of the truck and stalked towards the overturned vehicle.  The driver was already dead, so he put a bullet in the head of the passenger who had been struggling to get out of the car. No other passengers.  Odd.

            The asset narrowed his eyes and noticed that the second vehicle had come to a stop some distance away. He dove behind his truck’s engine block as a crack split the air; dust jumped into the air as a bullet hit the dirt. He pulled the assault rifle off his back, took a deep breath, and stood up, putting a line of bullets through the front windshield.  He dropped back down, cursing when he saw that the windshield remained intact.  Uparmored, just like their own.  Jumping back up into the driver’s seat, he glanced into the back to see his handler take his finger off the trigger and point the muzzle of his pistol to the sky.  He gave a short nod of approval, ignoring for now the trail of blood streaking down his handler’s face and threw the vehicle in reverse.

            Then he was thrown against the door as something – _a third vehicle_ , the asset realized, angry at himself for not anticipating it – hit their rear tire, sending them spinning. He hit the gas, trying to turn into the spin, but the second vehicle struck and they were pinned, tires spinning useless in the sand.  The doors on the left side wouldn’t open, so the asset started punching out the windshield, watching with dread as men poured out of the vehicles to surround them, weapons raised cautiously.

            The asset stopped and reached across to the passenger door, crushing the door mechanism with his left hand before crawling into the back seat. “Stay behind me,” he said to his handler, crouching in the floorboard and bringing the rifle up to his shoulder.

            The first man who opened the HMV door died quickly. After that, there was a long silence; the asset could hear his handler breathing heavily, the dry click of his throat as he swallowed.  The engine was ticking, and outside the vehicle, the asset’s enhanced hearing could hear the men arguing. The position was unsustainable; as much as he would like to stay here and pick them off one by one as they tried to enter the vehicle, there would likely be reinforcements.  Unless they were under no obligation to take them alive, in which case it was just a matter of time before they just blew up the vehicle with them inside.

            The asset rolled his shoulders and tilted his head back and forth, hearing his neck pop.  “Stay here,” he said, and kicked the door open.

            Tony watched him go, jaw dropping as the silence from outside erupted into gunfire and screaming.  He slid to the door to look out the window, the asset moving so fast that he could really only track his movements by the bodies he left behind.  The asset was circling one of the last of their attackers when Tony saw his shoulder jerk and he stumbled.  Tony scrambled over the back seat to look out the rear window; yet another vehicle had pulled up twenty yards away and someone was leaning out the door, shooting at his asset.  Tony saw red and tightened his hand on his pistol, every cell aching to defend him instead of staying in the safety of the HMV.

            There was another crack in the air and the asset’s leg buckled; the man he was fighting took that as an opportunity and darted in only to die with a Ka-Bar through his neck.  The asset got back to his feet but blood was staining the leg of his khaki pants.  He raised his rifle to return fire but the vehicle was too far away and had too much armor for it to have much effect, so he slung the gun over his shoulder and ripped the door off one of the other vehicles, flinging it at the vehicle like an oversized Frisbee. As soon as it left his hand he was sprinting towards the vehicle; the door embedded itself in the engine block and the asset was leaping onto the roof and punching right through the it.

            Tony stared; he’d never actually seen the asset in action before, and it was mesmerizing.  The asset pulled a grenade from a pocket and dropped it in the hole in the roof. The vehicle rocked as the people inside tried to get out; as the doors opened, the asset did a twisting side flip and landed on one of the men, breaking his neck and driving him into the dirt.  Tony leaned to try to get a closer look then he was flying through the air as something exploded under his vehicle and it flipped over; he felt a sharp pain in his chest then his head struck the metal rollover bar of the roof and everything went black.

 

            As soon as he heard the ominous whistle of incoming mortar fire the asset’s stomach dropped. He turned just in time to see his handler’s vehicle erupt in a ball of flames; things went red, then white, and when color returned he realized he was screaming and that there was so much blood on his hands it was dripping into the sand as he raced for the ruins of the HMV.  Something struck his back and he stumbled, feeling pain shoot up his leg from the wound he received earlier. But he shook it off and kept going, just as he did for the next one that hit him in the calf, and the one after that that pinged off the pistol at his hip.  He was ripping at the buckled walls of the vehicle when he felt something hit his left arm; with a high pitched squeal, his arm spasmed and stopped moving. Looking down, there was a small disc attached to it; snarling, he dug at it with the fingers of his other hand, trying to pry it off, but then something buzzed and there was a sharp pain the back of his neck and he went limp.

***

            The asset woke up and heard: “ _What do we do with him?”_ His left arm was a dead weight and as soon as he tried to sit up there was another crackling buzz of electricity and pain raced down his spine and things went dark again.

 

            Tony woke up with a shocked gasp as the icy water hit his face.  He blinked painfully against bright lights shining in his face and felt the ropes binding him to the chair; over his head there was rapid fire Arabic. He turned his head and the Arabic grew more strident, then the feeling of a gun barrel being pressed to the back of his head discouraged more movement.  After a moment he could distinguish the unblinking red light of a camera filming, and rage overcame his fear.

            “Stane!” He shouted at the camera.  “I know this was you, Stane! You better hope these people kill me, because when I find you, you are going to beg for death!”  He strained against the ropes, feeling the pressure of something tearing in his chest, then something struck his head and he blacked out again.

 

            The asset woke up alone.  He stared at the ceiling and remembered his handler saying, “ _wakey, wakey, legs to breaky,_ ” and handing him a glass of red sludge.  He killed four people that screamed at him in Russian while they died, and his handler let him fall asleep on the couch after the mission debrief.  His left arm was a dead weight and when he sat up, he realized he was in a cave with a heavy iron door and a chain connecting him with the rock wall.  The disc was still on his arm so he put his back to the wall as far from the door as the chain would allow and set to work prying it off.  It was just starting to wiggle when the door opened with a loud clang and half a dozen armed men flooded into the room; he struggled as best he could with one arm, but there was a crackling buzz of electricity and pain raced down his spine and things went dark again.

 

            “What the hell did you do to me?” Tony hissed, backing the rabbity looking doctor against the wall, holding a screwdriver against his carotid artery.

            “I saved your life,” the doctor said, adjusting his glasses. “I removed all the shrapnel I could, but there’s a lot there that are headed into your atrial septum. It would have taken about a week for the metal barbs to migrate to your internal organs.”

            “Alright, but what is this?” Tony lowered the screwdriver and gestured down at the engineering monstrosity in his chest.

            “That’s an electromagnet, hooked up to a car battery.”

            “For fuck’s sake, _I know that_ , I’m Tony fucking Stark. I know what an electromagnet looks like. Why is it in my chest?”

            “It’s keeping the shrapnel from entering your heart.” The doctor turned away to build up the fire in the center of the cave.  “It was the best I could do, given the conditions.”

            “And my - the man I was with? Where is he?”

            “He's alive, that's all I know.”

 

            The asset woke up and heard the heartbeats of three other men in the room. They were nervous; the asset found himself smiling, and the heartbeats got faster.  He sat up and the chains on his wrists rattled; the men shuffled backwards towards the door.  One of them cleared his throat and opened up a red book with a black star in the center.  The asset narrowed his eyes at it and remembered: a chair. The taste of rubber.  Pain, and the rawness of a throat that can’t scream anymore.  The man started reading, stumbling over the unfamiliar pronunciation, and the asset felt a mounting rage.  He got to his feet, chains rattled, and things went dark again.

 

            Tony turned to Yinsen incredulously. “They want me to build a missile?”

            “Yes. This missile.” Yinsen showed him a promotional photo of the Jericho.

            “That’s it?”

            “For now.” Yinsen smiled and nodded at the terrorist leader and turned back to Stark. “You know they’re not going to let you go if you build them this missile.”

            “Maybe, maybe not.  But I need some time and some materials, and I’m not going to get either of those things if I say no, now am I?”  Tony turned to the leader, a portly man with a streaked grey and white beard who was quite good at projecting the false sense of bonhomie. “How do you say "yes, I'll do it" in Arabic?”

            “I’ll do it,” Yinsen said.  “I don’t want you to get us shot by accident. What exactly are you planning, Mr. Stark?”

            “Well for one thing, I’m not going to walk around carrying a fucking car battery for the rest of my life, even if it is just for a few weeks.”

 

            The asset woke up alone and smelled the faint iron tang of dried blood.  The asset remembered the smell of blood and hot sand, and remembered screaming for his handler. He sat up and saw smears of blood leading out the iron door, which was disfigured by large dents approximately the size of the asset’s fist.  Chains rattled, and the asset saw that they had been pulled out of the rock wall.  The men and the book were gone, and the asset was satisfied.  The disc from his arm was in pieces on the ground, and his left arm appeared to be functioning normally. His handler, however, was also gone, but until proven otherwise the asset would have to assume that the mission was ongoing.

            He gathered the chains around him and sat and thought.

 

            They came in the middle of the night, pulling Tony and Yinsen out of bed and shoving them to their knees, shouting angrily.

            “What is it? Is it the arc reactor?” Tony whispered furiously as they knelt, hands laced behind their heads. "I told him I'd build that fucking missile, I've been redrawing the blueprints!"

            Yinsen ignored him for a minute, talking rapid fire Arabic with the man who was waving his rifle around and pacing.  “It’s your friend,” he said finally.  “They tried to…talk to him?  I don’t understand what he’s trying to explain, but they want to know if he is a man or a monster.”

            Tony had to look down at the ground because he wasn’t able to smother his grin of satisfaction when the angry terrorist threw a red book on the ground in front of them. “Tell them Obediah Stane set them up. My friend is a man, but I’m the only one who can talk to him. What did they want with him?”

            Tony waited while Yinsen translated that.  He heard Yinsen say “Stane” and then the angry shouting and pacing started again. 

            “Stane said the man was a killer, and they want him to kill someone.”

            Tony looked up and a slow smile spread.  “That can be arranged,” he said.

 

            The asset did not sleep, though he was tired and hungry.  He crouched patiently near the door, chains wrapped around his knuckles and forearms, waiting for an opportunity, and he remembered. He remembered a sabotage mission in a factory situated in endless rows of corn ( _his handler had smiled broadly in satisfaction when he listened to the mission debrief. “That should set the renewable fuel industry back a few years,” he said happily. “Want a donut?”)_.  He remembered waiting for a man to come home late from work, sitting in the dark and wordlessly offering the man the choice between a pistol and a briefcase full of cash (“ _Good, he took the suitcase,” his handler had said.  “That’s always easier.  Have a seat, I think you’ll like this movie._ ” The asset remembered falling asleep to the feeling of his handler’s hand on his head). He remembered a mission on a dark gravel road; the target had said, “Bucky?”  There are other memories, so old and worn that the asset can’t be sure they are real. Memories of falling from a train, memories of guns that shot blue light and not bullets. There was a face…the asset tried to concentrate on remembering the face, but it wouldn’t come.  

            He shook his head to clear his thoughts when he heard the sound of feet coming down the tunnel to his door.  He flexed his fingers, bracing himself, and heard: “wait wait, you can’t just-“ as keys turned in the lock, then the door was opened and his handler stumbled through it.

            With a wordless noise the asset shook the chains off his hands.  He reached out, desperate to check his handler for injuries, but his hands stopped just short.  _No touching the handler without permission_ , his body screamed, so he just stood there, looking at his handler helplessly.

            His handler had no such limitation; he pulled the asset into a hug, holding him tightly.  “Jesus Christ, I thought they were going to kill you,” he said, and after a moment of hesitation the asset returned the embrace, putting his hands gingerly on his handler’s back.  When his handler pulled back he released him immediately.  “How are you? Self-assessment?”

            “Operating at 75% capacity,” the asset answered after careful consideration.  “Wounds are healed. Arm is fully operational.”

            “Yeah? So what’s wrong?” His handler ran his eyes over him critically, noting all the holes and stains in his clothing, the blood still on his skin.

            “Hungry.  Thirsty.”

            His handler scowled.  “They haven’t been feeding you? What the hell? Yinsen!” he called over his shoulder, through the small barred window in the door where men were still gathered and watching. “Get him some food and water for Christ’s sake.  He’s not a robot.”

            The asset heard someone translate that into Arabic and then feet moved away back down the tunnel.  His handler glanced around the sparse cell the asset had been confined in and finally took a seat on the metal cot that had been bolted into the wall.  He noticed the holes in the rock wall and the chains piled up near the door and smiled.  The asset felt something relax in him at the smile.  “Come here,” his handler said, gesturing. “Kneel.”

            The asset knelt between Tony’s knees, hands automatically coming to rest on his thighs with a grateful sigh. Tony smothered a snarl of protective rage as he brushed the asset’s hair away from his face, combing his fingers through it and carefully easing past the knotted tangles.  He ran his fingertips carefully over the asset’s face, feeling the rasp of stubble on his jaw.  They probably both looked terrible and smelled worse, but the asset still leaned into his touch and watched him with unquestioning affection.  This had been the longest the asset had gone without being wiped and put into cryo, but the programming seemed to be holding.  Tony let out a relieved breath.

            After a moment a gate at the bottom of the cast iron door opened and a couple of cans of food and a cup of water was shoved through.  “Give me a few hours with him and then come back and tell me what you want him to do,” Tony said when Yinsen’s face appeared in the window again.  “And I’m going to need like four or five more SAM motherboards for the Jericho.”  Yinsen nodded and relayed his message to the others, then they all shuffled off down the tunnel.

            “Are you ready?” The asset nodded and Tony leaned down close to murmur the words, so close that his lips were brushing the asset’s cheek as they moved.  Tony felt the asset shiver at the contact and he allowed himself to press a single kiss to the asset’s cheek before continuing. At the final word the asset went boneless with a moan of pleasure and Tony guided his head to rest on his thigh, still running his fingers over the asset’s scalp.  Tony lean back against the stone wall of the cell and realized that the asset’s flesh hand was curled around his ankle, one fingertip caressing the sensitive skin there.  The simple touch raised goosebumps on Tony’s arms.

             

            Tony paced for most of the hours until the asset returned, flanked by members of the terrorist’s group who were watching him with a sort of horrified awe.  The asset came in and knelt exactly six feet away from where Tony had stopped pacing when the door opened.

            “Mission report?”

            “Targets eliminated,” the asset said calmly.  Tony eyed his clothing, which at this point appeared to have more spots with bloodstains that spots without. 

            “Self-assessment?” Tony’s eyes skimmed over the asset but he didn’t see any obvious injuries.

            “Fully operational.”

            He turned to Yinsen.  “Is Raza satisfied?”

            “Apparently so,” Yinsen said after a moment of conversation.  “They say he fought like a hundred devils, like a man possessed.”

            Tony shrugged and wasn’t inclined to explain. “Can he stay here, with us?”

            As Yinsen spoke the terrorists started shaking their heads.  “No, they are holding you each hostage for the others’ good behavior,” Yinsen reported with a shrug.

            “Fine.  See if they’ll let him eat and then I’ll get him back into that cell,” Tony said with a scowl.  He turned back to the asset and squeezed his shoulder. “Good work.  You did well. Come sit.” He gestured for the asset to follow him and sat down next the fire, the only thing keeping the cave reasonably warm in the Afghan winter.  As the asset stretched his hands and feet closer to the fire, Tony studied him in the firelight.  By his assessment they had been here a few months, and in that time the asset had steadily grown more gaunt and pale, and the stubble had become a patchy beard along his jaw.  The food supplied by the terrorists barely satisfied Tony’s hunger and he knew it was in no way enough for his asset’s increased metabolism.  He was also growing concerned with the fact that it had been months since he’d been wiped; sometimes Tony thought he saw a flash of…something in the asset’s eyes, something that made his heart been faster in fear and anticipation before it was gone again and left Tony wondering if it was all his imagination.

            Right now, the asset’s gaze was on the fire, the light of it reflected in his cool grey eyes, but he was leaning against Tony, the long line of his body pressed against Tony’s from shoulder to knee, as if he was hungry for the contact.  Tony leaned back, giving him the contact he was silently asking for.

            All in all, it was more than time they left.  The Jericho was finished, his own side project was finished, and the asset had finally returned. It would happen tonight.

 

            The asset stalked through the merrily burning terrorist encampment, ignoring the heat on his skin while he listened for the sounds of the injured or dying over the noise of the fire.  He found the doctor still cowering in the cave where his handler had lived for the past few months, waiting out the firefight.  He dragged the doctor out to where his handler had finally finished shedding the cast iron armor he’d created for their escape.

            “Oh, yeah.  Yinsen,” his handler said, scratching his overgrown goatee as he considered the man.  “I normally don’t like to leave loose ends,” he mused, and the asset tightened his metal hand on the back of Yinsen’s neck, waiting for the sign from his handler to crush his spine.  “But on the other hand, you did save my life and I couldn't have escaped without you.”

            The doctor shrugged, apparently unconcerned either way.  “You may need a translator,” he pointed out.

            His handler tilted his head at the asset. “James here can speak Arabic, can’t you?”

            “نعم,” the asset said.  The doctor just shrugged again.

            His handler put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. Something inside the cave exploded with a muffled thump. “Tell me, Yinsen, if a house is damaged, even a beloved house, your family home, do you repair it, or do you tear it down and start over?”

            The doctor stared at him thoughtfully, and took a moment to polish his glasses.  He straightened his shoulders as he put them back on his face and said, “I do not believe there is anything so damaged it deserves to be destroyed.  All things can be repaired with enough time and care.”

            “I’m kinda sorry that you feel that way,” His handler said. The asset squeezed, and the doctor fell to the ground.


	3. Return to New York

_May 5, 2002_

            The asset was sitting in the belly of a military cargo plane as it droned over the mountain passes of Afghanistan towards the relative security of a US military base in Kuwait when he thought, _I._

            He stared down at his hands, covered in gloves to disguise the arm, and thought, _I am._   He opened and closed his left hand and thought _._ He thought about building and destroying, killing and protecting.  He thought about the name James.

            He was lost in this thought when his handler sat down next to him, leaning close to be heard over the loud engines of the plane.  “How are you doing?” he said into the asset’s ear, breath warm.  The sensation made his arm recalibrate while the rest of him got goosebumps.

            “Fully operational.”  Apparently satisfied, his handler patted the asset on the back and leaned back in the nylon webbing of the seats to close his eyes. Able to stare to his satisfaction now that his handler’s eyes were closed, the asset was pleased to see that his handler was looking better.  He had showered and shaved and changed clothes and looked happier than he had in months.  His eyes went to the spot on his handler’s chest where the device was hidden behind layers of clothes. The asset studied him and thought, _you lead, I follow.  You order, I execute. My…_ the asset also sat back in his seat and stared across the belly of the dimly lit plane, piled high with cargo and littered with a handful of soldiers trying to sleep. _My captain_ , he thought, and felt satisfied. _You are my captain_. He moved slightly so he could feel his captain’s shoulder against his own.

 _I am James. You are my captain._ He crossed his arms over his chest, resting the fingers of one hand on the contraband Ka-Bar strapped to his ribs under his jacket, and kept watch while his captain slept.

             

_May 7, 2002_

            When they crossed the threshold into Tony’s lab four months after they left, the asset went to his knees unbidden and said “mission complete” with a deep sigh as if he were putting down a heavy burden, letting his head fall forward in relief.  Tony blinked at him in surprise for a moment before he put a hand on the back of his neck, squeezing lightly.

            “Yeah, buddy.  Mission successful.  We’re finally home. Self-assessment?”

            “Tired.”  He looked it too.  Tony suddenly realized that he couldn’t remember the last time that he saw him sleep, and got mad at himself.  The asset had been programmed to not ask for what he needed; if he wasn’t given food, it was because it was not the time for eating.  If he wasn’t told to rest, it was because his abilities were still required.  He had spent the entire mission trying to protect Tony, and now it Tony’s job to take care of him.

            “Alright, c’mon.” Tony tugged on his arm to get him to stand again and led him to the bathroom, where he stripped the asset out of the clothes he’d been wearing for almost two days now and put him under the warm spray of the shower. “Shower first, and then we rest.”

            When he was done and dressed in the loose, comfortable clothing that he would normally wear in cryo, Tony instead led him to his bedroom. “Lay down,” he said when the asset hesitated. He finally lay down on his back, fingers laced together across his stomach.  Grabbing his tablet, Tony climbed in to bed next to him and rested a hand on his shoulder.  “Rest,” he said.  “I’ll keep watch.”

            With a long, exhausted sigh the asset closed his eyes and fell asleep.

***

            The device in his captain’s chest emitted a low hum, right at the edge of James’s hearing.  Because of it, he could always tell where his captain was, and that made him happy.  Right now, everything made him happy, because his captain had given him the words as he strapped down James’s arm to make repairs and now James was floating on a cloud of bliss.  He watched curiously as his captain inspected his arm for lingering damage from the desert, carefully picking through wires and cables.  The air of the lab was cool on his bare chest, the leather of the chair he was reclined in was smooth under the fingertips of the flesh hand, and his captain’s voice was a soothing murmur.  James let his eyes drift closed and let the world float by for a while; sometimes he smelled the sharp smell of something burning and his metal fingers would twitched involuntarily, but there was no pain. He tuned in to what his captain was saying and realized he was complaining about the amount of sand that had made its way inside the plates of his arm, but from the way he said it James knew that his captain wasn’t truly angry.

            Then he felt a finger poke his left side.  “What are you smiling about?” His captain asked as he rolled away for a moment to retrieve something from another table.  Coffee, from the smell of it.

            “You talk. A lot. When you are…happy.”

            Tony paused with his cup half way to his mouth.  He’d been surreptitiously watching the asset as he worked, monitoring him while he worked on the arm.  Usually he did this after the asset was sedated and just before cryo, if there was damage, or right before he woke up from cryo, if there were upgrades.  Today he tried something different and it seemed to be working fine, judging from the way the asset sat peacefully and enjoyed the happy hormone high. Then the asset had smiled, a small and private smile, and the question had just slipped out.

            “Yeah, I guess I do,” he said slowly, taking a sip of coffee. He realized that he _was_ enjoying himself, finally back to working in his own lab with his own stuff and endless supplies of coffee, safe and sound with the asset as undemanding company.  He picked up the suction tool and the pipe cleaner brush as he went back to work, suddenly feeling self-conscious.  Four months with no mind wipes and no cryo had, contrary to the strident warnings Tony had received from the Russians, not resulted in the asset turning on him or attempting to escape.  To the casual observer, there had been no change. The asset was still quiet, not speaking unless spoken to. He did not initiate physical contact and still responded to programmed prompts as he was meant to.  But the quality of the asset’s quiet had changed, the look in his eyes was often the calm of still waters, hinting at more underneath.  _You talk a lot when you are happy._  

            Tony struggled to control his breathing when he realized his heart was pounding and he had to stop his work for a moment.  Unconsciously he glanced at the cryo tube, suddenly scared by the prospect of change; for over a decade, the asset had been something like a service animal crossed with a beloved pet: brought out to work, rewarded, and put in cryo until next time.  Now…Tony realized that the asset had opened his eyes and followed Tony’s gaze to the cryo chamber.

            Tony swallowed at the solemn look in the asset's eyes, feeling like he was balanced on a precipice as his mind calculated possible futures.  As his programming eroded and his memories returned, the asset would inevitably – likely had already – realize his own capacity for free will.  What would happen then was anyone’s guess.  Last time it happened, he'd turned on his handlers and left a trail of bodies before he was recovered.  “Do you want to…sleep?” Tony asked finally, pointing at the cryo tube with his suction tool.

            “No.”

            Tony tilted his head, watching him carefully. “Why not?”

            “I belong with you,” the asset said without hesitation. “You lead. I follow. You order. I execute.”

            “Ok.” Tony blinked a couple of times before he bent back over the exposed wires of the open metal arm and went back to work, mind racing.  Apparently satisfied, the asset- _James,_ Tony corrected himself; whoever James turned out to be, he was certainly no longer simply the asset -  _James_ closed his eyes and silence reigned.

 

_May 14, 2002_

             Hidden in the shadows of Obadiah Stane’s mansion, he watched his former mentor re-activate the security system and pull off his jacket, draping it over the back of a kitchen chair.  Tony noticed with amusement that Obie was wearing a double holster with .44 Magnums under each arm; a security measure, no doubt.  Perhaps his allies in Afghanistan had notified him of Tony's escape, since the news of his return to New York was not yet public.  As Obie went to the fridge for a beer, Tony tapped on James' thigh, and with a nod he moved silently to where Obie was still looking in the fridge, the light bright in the otherwise dim house.  The asset drew a knife as long as Tony’s hand, painted black so it wouldn’t reflect light, and wrapped his metal arm around Obie’s neck as the knife bit warningly between his ribs.

            “Good evening, Obie,” Tony said, getting up to hit the switch for the lights.  “How are you doing?”

            “Been better,” he said, arms out and hands up, one still holding the bottle of beer. “Welcome back, I guess."

            “Thanks!  Let’s have a chat, like the old days.”  As James led Obie over to an armchair, Tony took the .44s and popped the clips out, sliding back the chamber to make sure it was empty. James pushed Obie down into the chair and took each pistol, crushing the barrels in his metal hand before handing them back to Obie.  

            “What do you want, Tony?”  Tony had half hoped that Obie would look afraid at this point, but he wasn’t surprised that Obie just looked wary.  He probably thought he was untouchable.  Tony had thought that at one time, too.

            “Well, that’s a complicated question.” Tony took a seat on the couch while James remained standing behind Obie, arms braced on the back of the chair so that Obie could just see the metal one out of the corner of his eye. “You know, when I woke up in that cave, I spent the first month or so imagining all the ways I wanted to kill you.  I worked hard to make sure to think of a different way each night so I could pick my favorite.  But, eventually, you know, my temper cooled and I thought, this plan of his was really clever.”  Tony leaned forward, arms resting on his knees. Obie’s eyes flickered down his shirt, where you could see the glow of the arc reactor.  “I have to admit, it really was genius.  Unfortunately, you didn’t account for the factor of human greed, so.  It didn’t work, did it? Because here I am.  Also, while I was there, I figured out how I’m going to change the world, so really, I have to thank you.  I don’t know if I would have thought of it if I hadn’t been tortured and afraid for my life on a daily basis.”

            “Glad I could help.” Obie shifted in his chair and a metal hand gripped his shoulder, squeezing until Obie stilled.

            “I’m sure.  But to come back to your question, as to what I want from _you_ , the answer is, well, nothing. I’m going to kill you, then I’m going to take anything of value, then I’ll trash the place – probably going to go with the ‘interrupted a burglar, tried to be a hero’ story with the press – and then I’ll probably burn Hydra to the ground and take all the credit.” He stood and spread his hands wide, shrugging.  “I’m going to take over the world, and we both know I don’t like to share.  Plus, I’ll be a hero.  Maybe I’ll even run for president.  I think Howard would be proud.”

            Obie’s hands tightened where they were resting on the arms of the chair.  “Tony, I’m –“

            “Whoa, stop there, Obie.  Whatever you were going to say, I don’t want to hear it.  Especially if it is an apology.  Because frankly, I’m mostly over the whole attempted assassination.  But the bad thing is, unfortunately my friend here isn’t,” Tony said, waving a hand at James.  “Turns out, he’s not one to forgive and forget, because those Afghani guys weren’t really nice to him, and he really protective so he didn’t enjoy how they were treating me either.  So I’m going to let him decide how you die while I go copy the contents of your computer and empty out your safes.”  He clapped a hand on James' back and was pleased at his slow, sharp smile.  “Have fun.”

            Eventually he had close the door to the office because the screams got distractingly loud. When he was done, he raided Obie’s liquor stash and took a seat on the couch, rifling through the papers he’d found both in Obie’s obvious safe and the less obvious one that had been hidden in the floor under his desk.  Everything he needed to destroy Hydra was right here and it helpfully included enough blackmail material to make Congress dance to his tune for the next ten years. Tony sighed happily and set the paperwork aside. Leaning back against couch, he took a sip of whiskey and noticed that it had finally gone quiet out in the living room.

            After a moment, the door to the office opened and Tony heard the sound of footsteps.

            He lifted his head and watched as James approached.  He stopped six feet away and met Tony’s eyes, and there was something that cool grey gaze that made Tony’s heart beat faster. Then he took a step forward, then another, and another, until when he stopped and went to his knees he was between Tony’s splayed thighs.

            Heat pooled at the base of Tony's spine at the sight.  James' hair was short, brushed back away from his face, and his jaw was clean shaven and at that moment he was so impossibly handsome that Tony had to trail his fingers over his cheek to be sure he was real.  James turned his face into the touch and his lips brushed Tony's palm.  Tony's other hand tightened around his glass of whiskey at the sensation.  “Mission report?” Tony managed.  

            James was breathing a little faster too, pupils blown, but his gaze was unwavering.  “Mission successful,” he said, voice like gravel, and Tony let out a long breath.  That breath hitched a little when he felt hands curl around his ankle and slide slowly up to cup his calves, one warm and one cool.  Jesus Christ, Tony wanted to feel those hands, that mouth, on him. But.   

            "Mine, too.  Well done." Tony took a sip of whiskey, trying to keep a strong grip on his good intentions, and offered the glass to James. He mourned the loss of James' touch as he took the glass from Tony and drained it, turning it upside down and setting it on the coffee table behind him.  Leaning forward, he pressed a chaste kiss to James' temple and murmured,  "Let's finish up here and go home. We need to talk."

 ***

            Back at the lab, Tony directed James to sit at one of his work tables and handed him a folder, deceptively thin considering its explosive contents.  “This is you, James," Tony said, tapping a finger on the cover.  He'd wavered the whole ride home over whether he should edit the contents, but in the end he left it as he'd found it.  "Or rather, who you were.  How you got here." He gestured around the lab.  "While you look at that I'm going to go get us something to eat, ok?"  James nodded absently and when Tony looked back before he left the lab, he was going over every page with an intense deliberation.

            When Tony returned about an hour later, he found James laying in his cryo tube, fingers laced across his stomach as he stared up at the ceiling. "Hey," he said gently as he crossed the room, though he knew that James had probably heard him coming before he ever opened the door to the lab. "I got burgers.  You should eat."  As James nodded and swung his legs out of the cryo tube, Tony started passing him food.  For a while they ate in silence, until Tony realized that if he was waiting for James to talk first he was going to be waiting for a while. "Well? Any questions?"

            James' eyes came up to meet Tony’s as he chewed. “Did you know?” He asked after he swallowed.

            “No,” Tony said.  “I found this file in Obie’s safe.”  Technically true, but not entirely.  When they’d first acquired James as an asset, Tony had been shown the file, but had skipped past his uninteresting origins to schematics of the arm and the control protocols. He saw that they had tried to make a man into a machine, and since he preferred machines to people, he’d done as he always did – he made the machine better.  A better arm. A better cryo chamber. Better control protocols, better memory wipe procedures. “I mean, when we…met, I didn’t think about where you came from.”

            “Why?”

            “Because I wanted you.  They were…misusing you, and they were stupid and cruel.” Tony drummed his fingers on the table and thought about dog fighting rings and the sort of men who ran them, the type of dogs that survived and the type that didn’t.  “You deserved better. You _deserve_ better.”

            James only made a thoughtful sound at that as he continued to eat absently.  "Why did you make me forget?"

            "There are many things I wish I could forget," Tony said eventually, choosing his words carefully.  "I thought...it would make it easier. For you. To not have to carry that burden." The Russians had said that it was the only way to control him, and now Tony wanted to go back in time and kick himself for believing them. "But that's not my decision to make, so...I'm sorry.  How much do you remember?"

            James made a gesture with his hands to say,  _how would I know?_  and Tony quirked his lips ruefully.  "Touche."  

            "Why did you decide to tell me?"

            That was a question Tony had been asking himself a lot.  He set his burger down with a sigh and wiped the grease off his hands.  "When you came here, you were- were like one of my machines.  I liked you, and I liked hanging out with you, but it wasn't..." Tony glanced up to see James watching him, expression neutral.  "It wasn't real.  In Afghanistan, when you started remembering, then we got back home and I found out there was a  _you_ to like.  And I realized what I had been doing this whole time, and I knew I had to stop."  Something in James' cool grey gaze made him add, "and I thought, if you want to stay, you could be my partner.  A real partner, not like, a henchman." 

            _Partner._   James considered the concept, testing it against _captain_ while he chewed mechanically. He wasn’t fond of this particular food, but while his captain was away he had been starting to feel the pinch in his abdomen that was probably hunger.  It was the strongest feeling he’d had since reporting the successful elimination of Obadiah Stane, since he’d seen that look in his captain’s eyes that always made a thrill of heat flash down his spine and settle low in his hips, a heat that he was growing increasingly interested in chasing.  It was like the high of having his reward but more raw and visceral, and he wanted more of it. But instead he'd been handed the folder, full of his own face and dry facts that gave him context for his memories but nothing else.  He’d been laying in his cryo tube trying to find the feelings that accompanied the memories in his head, but most of them felt like they belonged to someone else or were from a dimly remembered movie.  He didn't feel cheated for the loss; many of the memories he was rediscovering were not pleasant.  

            Except for the ones of his captain. When he refocused, he realized that his captain was waiting for something.  He rewound his thoughts to the last words his captain had said:  _if you want to stay_. “I want to stay,” he said, wondering of something so obvious needed to be said. His captain's look of relief made him straighten with concern.  He’d been worried, then, that James would leave.  What he had done to make his captain question his loyalty?  Had it been his questions about the folder?

            “Oh, good,” his captain said, putting a hand on his shoulder.  James found himself leaning into it, happy for the warmth and weight of it. “Welcome aboard, partner.”

            There it was again.   _Partner_.  James wasn’t sure he liked the idea, finding himself preferring the simplicity of _captain_ , but didn’t argue.     

            “So how do you feel about being my-“

            “Yes,” James said immediately, then flinched when he realized he had interrupted. 

            “Full time bodyguard,” Tony finished, smiling.  James relaxed.  Perhaps that was a behavior allowed of _partners._ “Okay then.  First, let’s celebrate by getting us some coffee, then I've got some work to do.”

            Coffee.  _Mocha latte_ , James’s memory supplied, and he got to his feet with alacrity.


	4. On Top of the World

_June 23, 2002_

            His captain was too busy with his project to notice when James entered the lab, head down with sparks flying from the arc welder in his hands.  The noise of parts being machined on the other side of the lab was loud enough that it covered the sound of the door so he just settled down close by to clean the weapons he’d been using down at the range. When he was done his captain was still absorbed in his work, so he edged into his captain’s line of sight until he was noticed.

            “Oh, hey,” Tony said, taking off his welding goggles and rubbing at the red lines they made around his eyes. “Whatcha think?” He held up what he’d been welding in front of his face and James saw that it was a mask, flat and severe with darkened glass where the eyes should be.

            “Looks…menacing,” James said approvingly. Tony frowned and took a look as the mask again.

            “While normally I like menacing, that’s not what I was going for.  Maybe if I added some color…” he mused, then set the mask down to lead James over to where the rest of the armor was situated.  “I’m improving on the stuff that I made back in Afghanistan, now that I have all my old toys back.  When we’re ready, we are going destroy Hydra,” his captain said, rapping a wrench against the armor.  “We are going to be heroes, and we are going to ride that all the way to the top.”

            James eyed it curiously. “Where are the weapons?”

            “Oh, don’t worry, there will be weapons.” He gestured towards a long work table pushed against the far wall. On it were rows and rows of armaments, some James recognized, some he didn’t. “Repulsor beams, pulse barrage, smart missiles, mini missiles, good old fashioned guns. Auto-targeting in the helmet, infrared sensors, full communications array.  When I’m in this bad boy I’m going to be a one-man army.”

            James felt his lips curve into a smile as he looked out over the array. There would be no more caves and chains for his captain once this suit was operational. The only way it could be improved is if his captain could operate it remotely from the safety of his tower.  James resolved to mention that next time.

            Tony laughed at the expression on James' face as he started packing up his tools. “I’m about ready to quit for the day, if you’re done.  Wanna watch a movie?”

            “Yes,” James said with barely controlled eagerness.  _Movie_ meant whiskies on the rocks, Tony complaining about bad science and throwing popcorn at the TV screen, and the press of shoulders and thighs as they sat on the couch.  James usually spent the whole time so thrillingly aware of his captain's proximity that he only peripherally paid attention to the movie, basking in the sparks of sensation everywhere they touched.  It also usually meant popcorn, which James wasn’t as much of a fan of, but it was worth meticulously cleaning his metal hand as long as he could have the chance of Tony’s body against his own.

            “Good.  Let’s get the most recent Terminator on the TV and I’ll make popcorn.”

            James quickly changed out of his combat rig and was waiting for Tony on the couch, whiskies already poured the way his captain favored.  When Tony finally sat down with a big bowl of popcorn, he handed James a cup.  “I noticed you don’t like touching the popcorn with your metal hand,” he explained when James looked at the cup curiously.

            Oh. _Oh._ The gesture made warmth spread in his chest and James felt his heart make a curiously hard _thump_  when he reached for the cup and their fingers brushed. “Thank you.”

            His captain made it halfway through the movie before he fell asleep on James' shoulder.  James would have gladly sat there for hours to let his captain sleep, but the change in music during the credits woke him. Tony shuffled sleepily to his room while James went back to the lab to sleep in his cryo tube.  His captain had planned to remove it until he realized that James preferred sleeping there, liking the security of its walls around him and too used to the mattress inside to get comfortable on anything else.  Tonight, though, he couldn’t get comfortable despite the pillows and blankets that he’d gradually accumulated; he was thinking too much of his captain and the silence of the lab made him feel lonely.  So he took a pillow and blanket and crept upstairs, easing into Tony’s room and laying down on the floor beside the bed with a contented sigh. He quickly fell asleep to the barely audible hum of the arc reactor and his captain’s deep, rhythmic breathing.

 

_October 9, 2002_

            “Oh, good, you’re up,” his captain said, eyes lighting up when James came into the lab.  James had actually been awake for hours, patrolling the building after being driven from sleep by nightmares of soldiers invading the tower, but he joined Tony at his work table without comment.  “I have a mission for you, should you choose to accept it.”  Tony picked up a folder from his desk and waved at James to follow him over to the couch.  Sitting, he began to spread out the contents of the folder on the coffee table.

            After a moment of hesitation, James slowly joined Tony.  He sat stiffly, hands on his thighs while he resisted the almost overwhelming urge to kneel, while his captain explained the assignment. It was a simple surveillance mission: James was to follow a recently elected senator while he was in town on vacation and report back with anything that could be used as blackmail.

            James picked up the photo of the senator, a bland looking white man with thinning hair and a smarmy grin. “Hydra?”

            “Yeah.  One of Pierce’s.  I need him out of the way and then Pierce is next,” Tony said with satisfaction.  “Then no one will be left to threaten me and mine.”

            The next sheet of paper was the man’s itinerary for his trip to the city.  James glanced at it and memorized the address of the man’s hotel.  “Out of the way?” James repeated.

            “Not like that. He might be useful later. Just observe and report.”

            James made a thoughtful noise and closed the folder.  “Mission parameters confirmed.”

 

            Two nights later James was waiting, still and silent, on a rooftop with a clear line of sight into the senator’s hotel room. The tracking device James had put on the man’s jacket showed that he was finally on his way back from the fundraiser.  He’d already searched and bugged the man’s hotel room, made copies of everything on his laptop for his captain to peruse, and mirrored his phone for his captain to monitor.  A full night of observation yesterday had turned up nothing; James had found himself aggravated and bored and wondering what Tony was doing and wishing he were home instead of on this cold, uncomfortable rooftop.   

            Thirty minutes later the senator’s car pulled up and as he climbed out he was on his cell phone, leaving a voicemail for someone to meet him at the hotel. James shifted slightly, finally interested. He took a few photos of the senator entering the hotel, more to ensure the camera was functional than anything else.  Inside his room, the man was clearly getting ready for someone to arrive, showering and shaving though he’d shave that morning already.  Through the bugs James could hear him humming under his breath and then there was a knock at the door.

            James got plenty of photographs of the young man who walked in, documenting the drink he accepted from the senator and then each kiss and layer of clothes they shed on the way to the bed.  He turned the volume down on the bug as the noises became more…enthusiastic, making his skin feel hot and tight, but he kept photographing what turned out to be a surprising number of athletic positions given the senator’s age and physical condition.

            When they were finished and the money changed hands, James started packing everything up, suddenly grateful for the chill of the night. He adjusted his pants and vaulted off the rooftop, making his way from building to building back home.  Despite the hour, when he arrived he found Tony eating cereal in front of the television, paying only partial attention to the movie that was playing as he studied something on his tablet.  James paused at the doorway, eyes traveling over his captain, lit blue and white from the flickering light of the television.  He was wearing a black tank top that bared his lean, muscled shoulders and he was biting his lip as he studied his tablet, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.  As he watched, his hands twitched with the desire to touch all of that smooth, dusky skin and his mouth went dry with the temptation to taste, to bite marks and see if Tony would make enthusiastic noises, too.

            Lost in his thoughts, he must have made an involuntary sound because Tony looked up at him, squinting to see him around the brightness of the television. “You’re back earlier than I thought,” he said, muting the television and gesturing for James to join him on the couch.  “Let’s see what you got.”

            Walking stiffly, acutely aware of the heaviness in his groin, James emptied his pockets of the mirrored phone and the thumb drive and handed over the camera. As Tony went through everything he’d gathered, James slowly slid off the couch to kneel on the floor, exhaling silently as some of the tension that had been crawling under his skin eased.  Almost absently his captain reached out and put a hand on the nape of his neck, squeezing lightly. When he drew his hand back James could still feel the phantom warmth of it and the rest of him felt colder in comparison.  He shifted to lean against Tony's leg.

            “This is perfect,” Tony said with a smile, scrolling through the images on the digital camera and not noticing the unusual quality of James’s silence. “Nothing says ‘leverage’ like an illicit love affair.”

            James dragged his eyes away from the images with difficulty, forcing himself to stare at the headlines on the television.  He felt full of unruly energy that was making it difficult to concentrate, a restless itch under his skin he didn’t know how to scratch. 

            “James?” James blinked and turned his head when Tony put a hand on his shoulder. “You ok?”

            “Can I have my reward?” James asked suddenly, craving the release. “I – I need…”

            Tony’s eyes darkened and he cupped James’ jaw. “Of course,” he said, voice a little rough. “Come with me, I know what you need.”  He pulled James to his feet, lacing his fingers with James’ metal ones as he led him to the bedroom.

            “Strip,” Tony ordered, and James’ grey eyes never left Tony’s face as he pulled his clothes off, growing darker and more heated with every piece of clothing that hit the floor.  When Tony urged him onto the bed he lay down readily, every line of his body tense with anticipation, while Tony sat on to the bed next to him, his thigh a warm line against James’ hip.  “Are you ready?”

            James swallowed thickly and nodded once. Tony flattened a palm on James’ chest and he obeyed the unspoken order to take a few deep breaths.  After a moment his captain murmured, “Reign,” and James felt the anxious tension in his body start to drain away, eyelids sliding lower as he exhaled long and low. The hand on his chest started rubbing in gentle circles as Tony said “Kinetic,” and warmth started to spread from the touch. James reached out for Tony as he said “twilight” and Tony took his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm.  Two more words tripped along his nerves, setting them on fire and pulling a deep sound from James’ chest. He forced his eyes open against the drugging pleasure making his limbs feel heavy and tugged Tony down, wanting to feel his body against his own. At James’ muttered “please” Tony eventually relented and lay down beside him.

            “Shhhh,” Tony said soothingly, running a hand down James’ side as he moved restlessly. “I’ve got you.”  James wrapped an arm around his captain, pulling him close and burying his face in his hair. Then he went boneless, finally relaxing as the rest of the words pulled him under.

 

_December 5, 2002_

            As Tony slid documents across the table to Alexander Pierce, each one dismantling a piece of his power base and laying bare each dirty little secret, the other man’s face turned alternating shades of red and white.  When he was finished, Tony leaned back in his chair, satisfied at Pierce’s speechlessness.  James narrowed his eyes at him and moved closer, putting a hand on the pistol strapped to his thigh as Pierce made an aborted move towards Tony.

            Pierce’s eyes flickered over to James and he sat back down.  Recognizing that he was out-gunned and out-maneuvered, Pierce’s lip curled disdainfully.  “So he’s your lapdog now? Figures. Tell me, when he’s on his knees for you, does he-“

            “That will be enough of that,” Tony said loudly. “You can go now.  Shoo.”

            For a moment Pierce was slack-jawed with surprise. “You’re letting me go?”

            “Well, yes.  It would seem very suspicious if you were to die by accident just now, and I think I’ve adequately proven that I’ve got you by the short and curlies.  You’ve been dethroned, defanged, and declawed. So yeah, you can go.  Enjoy your retirement or whatever.” With each word Pierce’s face got darker and darker and finally he stood angrily, shoving his chair away, and left, slamming the door closed behind him.  Tony rocked in his chair a bit and grinned at James before turning on his laptop.

            “I would, you know,” James said into the quiet.  When Tony glanced up, he saw that James was looking at him intently.

            “Would what?” Tony asked absently as he booted up the eavesdropping program he’d written.  Pierce was cautious enough to have an anonymous burner phone that he used to contact his Hydra STRIKE team, but he was dumb enough to have had it in his car when he drove to Stark Tower.

            “Get on my knees for you.”

            Tony’s hand paused over the button that would turn on the speakers as his eyes flew up to meet James’ steady gaze.  They stared at each other for long moments. “You don’t know what you are asking for,” he said finally, voice rough. He pushed the button to turn on the speakers, and Pierce’s coldly furious voice filled the conference room again, breaking the tense silence.

            _“Yes, Tony Stark.  Were you not listening the first time?”_

 _“And how are we supposed to do that?”_  James recognized that voice.  He’d been on one of his support teams. Rumlow, his memory supplied.

            _“He can’t wear his suit all the time, can he? Figure it out,”_ Pierce snapped, and the call ended.

            The call ended, and Tony leaned back in his chair. “How long do you think we have before Rumlow makes his move?”

            James consulted his memories of Rumlow. “He is good but not great. Emotional. Four to six days preparation, one day to get in position.” Tony nodded and began to pack up the electronics, movements brusque and jerky as he avoided James' thoughtful gaze.  James kept his peace as they left the conference room, nodding curtly to the secretary as Tony bid her a cheerful goodbye. 

            “What if I do know what I’m asking for?” James said once they reached the privacy of their personal elevator, watching the numbers tick higher as they went to their suite at the top of the tower.

            His captain was silent for so long that James was growing concerned by the time he finally spoke.  “Then you would know that there would be no going back.  If you decide to walk away now,” Tony gritted his teeth like he had a hard time even saying the words, “I could let you.  But if we…if we do anything more, you will be mine until one of us is dead, and I will kill anyone who touches you.”

            James pondered that.  He imagined leaving, walking out of the tower and...doing what? Living somewhere else? Never seeing his captain again?  He shook his head sharply to dismiss the thought, scowling.  Then he tried to imagine someone else sitting in the lab with his captain while he worked, sitting on the couch with them during movie night, laughing at Tony’s comments. In his bed.  Taking up his time, touching him-

            The sound of a throat clearing broke James out of his thoughts, and he followed Tony’s gaze to where he had put his hand on the knife strapped to his thigh.  “Yes, to all of it,” James growled.

            “Are you sure?”

            “Yes. Until death with the possibility of murder.”  For some reason that made his captain laugh, and something inside James relaxed at the sound, taking his hand off the handle of his knife.  He watched Tony’s mouth curve and felt his own echo the motion.

            “Well, let’s hope for more murder than death, because we just kicked a hornet’s nest today.”  Tony put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed lightly, still smiling. After a moment, though, the amusement started to fade into puzzlement.  “James? What is it?”

            James’s eyes flew up to meet Tony’s. He realized he’d been staring at Tony’s smiling mouth, thinking about- wanting to- “I don’t know,” he said finally, not sure how to articulate his thoughts.  “Can I…?” He raised his flesh hand and reached out towards his captain.

            “Whatever you want,” Tony said, watching James intently. When his fingers reached out to brush across Tony’s lips, Tony grew very still. His fingers continued across Tony’s cheek before cupping his jaw, his goatee a soft tickle in James’ palm.  Tony swallowed and James’ eyes followed the movement down to where Tony had loosened his tie and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, revealing the dip in the base of his throat.  James set his fingers there and felt Tony’s pulse pounding.

            Tony licked his lips and asked, voice low, “What do you want, James?”

            James’ eyes were dark as they traveled over his face as if seeing him for the first time.  “You. Your hands on me.  Not the words, just you.”

            Tony closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath before he set his suitcase down and reached out to cup James' cheek, rubbing his thumb along his cheekbone, echoing James’ gesture. James leaned his head into the touch with a long exhale, eyes steady on Tony’s as Tony buried his hand in that thick hair.  His fist tightened just short of true pain and he slowly pulled James’ head back until his throat was bared, pale and vulnerable. When Tony pressed his mouth to that beautifully arched neck, he felt a shiver under his lips and he smiled.  When Tony bit down just hard enough to make a mark, he heard James make a sound deep in his chest. “Who do you belong to, James?” Tony murmured against his skin and James’ breathing hitched, eyes heavy lidded.

            “You,” James said, voice low and thick.

            Tony exhaled against the dark, hot stab of pleasure that went through him at that, watching the line of James’ throat move as he swallowed. A flush was crawling up James’ neck and Tony itched to see how far down the flush went. “Good,” he said thickly, biting another mark into James’ neck.  “Yes, you are mine.”

           “ _More_ ,” James said with a rumble that Tony felt with lips and hands.  Tony released his grip on James’ hair and pulled him close with a hand on the back of his neck, tilting his head to cover James’ mouth with his own.  James made another noise deep in his throat and instinctively opened his mouth to let Tony’s tongue sweep inside, drawing a possessive growl from Tony’s chest.  He finally pulled away and James swayed closer, chasing his mouth.  When James opened his eyes his pupils were blown, and his tongue darted out to lick his lips as if searching for the last taste of Tony.

           “Are you sure? Last chance,” Tony warned, walking backwards towards the bedroom and pulling James with him, one hand on the back of James' neck and the other undoing his belt. 

            James shook his head and let himself be pulled. “I’m not leaving.” He leaned forward to capture Tony’s mouth again, hands slowly coming up to Tony’s shirt, gaining confidence with each button that slipped through its hole.  Tony made a hum of approval as James’ hands slid inside his dress shirt, the coolness of the metal hand drawing goosebumps as he trailed it down Tony’s ribs. 

            Tony bit along James jaw and slid his hands under James’ shirt, smiling as he found a knife and a pistol strapped there.  “Maybe disarm a bit, then,” he said as he pushed him down onto the bed. 

            James obeyed, nudging his weapons under the edge of the bed while he watched Tony shrug out of his shirt. He bit his lip as his gaze raked over the compact, powerful lines of Tony's shoulders and torso; hooking his fingers into the waist of Tony’s pants, he pulled him between his knees, pressing his lips to the bony jut of Tony’s hip before biting it lightly.  Tony grunted at that, hands tangling in James’ hair as he trailed his lips across to the other hip and bit it too, sucking at the sensitive skin hard enough to leave his own mark. This close it was impossible to miss the hard line of Tony’s length pressing against the front of his pants; James rubbed his cheek over it, glancing up when Tony inhaled sharply.

            “You have me. Now what?”  Tony asked, raking his fingers over James’ scalp.

            Memories and images flashed so quickly through James’ head that he stilled, unable to process them all. There were half remembered fumbled encounters in cobblestone alleyways and furtive kisses in dark forests and canvas tents; more recently, images of the senator and his lover came to mind, the things they had done together that James had never…His mouth went dry and his heart pounded because he wanted everything, all of it, everything his captain would let him have.  

            Tony must have seen James’s indecision because he smiled and said, “Well, let’s take it easy this time, yeah?”

            James relaxed and nodded once. _This time._ Implication, there would be another time. _Updated mission parameters accepted,_ James thought, and keeping his gaze steady on Tony’s, he brought his hands up to open Tony’s belt and pants, fingers brushing his erection.  He pushed the clothes down Tony’s legs and then wrapped his flesh fingers around Tony’s cock, hot and hard and satiny under his fingertips.  Tony’s fingers in his hair had stilled, but when he leaned forward to run his tongue over the smooth head of Tony’s cock, they spasmed, tightening with a delicious sting. 

            When he licked it again and again, pressing his lips to the side, exploring the textures of Tony’s cock with tongue and mouth, those fingers came down to cradle his face.  A thumb traced the line of James’ lower lip and when Tony asked softly “Open for me?” he did eagerly, eyes sliding shut at feeling of the heavy weight of the cock on his tongue.  He didn’t know he was sliding off the bed until his knees hit the floor but once he was there it felt… _right._ He made a noise of contentment, humming around his captain’s cock.  Distantly James was aware of the tightness in his groin, the pressure of his cock inside his pants, but the rest of the world had fallen away in favor of the warm skin under his hands and in his mouth. Above him, his captain crooned praise as James took him deeper, cheeks hollowing as he swallowed around Tony’s cock.

            Tony’s head fell back with a groan at the divine pressure of James’ mouth; he’d tried to watch, but the sight of his cock sliding between those sinful lips and James’ blissed out expression was making him want to bury his hands in that thick dark hair and hold him still while he just- _Christ_. Be gentle, Tony told himself.  Now was not the time for face fucking, for tying him down or wrapping his fingers around the lovely length of James' throat while he slid inside him, for testing James' limits or seeing how long it took to break his extraordinary self-control.  Tony shivered as his thoughts and James' hot, slick mouth dragged him close to the edge.

            He allowed himself a few more achingly sweet moments of enjoying James' mouth before he let out a long breath and reached for his own control, tugging James off his cock and letting out a helpless moan as James released him reluctantly.  Tony urged him to his feet and slid his hands under James' shirt to pull it over his head.  He also pushed his pants to the floor and crowded him back onto the bed until James could reach the headboard, metal and flesh fingers wrapping around the metal bars as grey eyes watched Tony with heated curiosity. "Let me make you feel good, too," he murmured, biting the curve of James' ear.  "But I need you to stay still.  Can you do that for me?"

            James nodded and his restless movements stilled; he was motionless save for the slightly too fast rise and fall of his chest.  Tony smiled in approval and straddled James' thighs, sitting back on his heels to appreciate the view.  James's pupils were blown and a red flush colored his pale skin all the way down to his nipples; Tony teased them with his thumbs until they were hard and then pinched them, increasing the pressure until he felt James' thighs flex underneath him and heard him make a noise deep in his chest. Leaning over, he circled his tongue around them in an apology then blew lightly on the wet skin, earning himself another bitten off noise.  He kissed and bit his way up to James' shoulder, where the metal arm was whirring and clicking as he flexed his hands on the headboard.  Tony knew that the scarred skin where flesh met metal at his chest and shoulder was numb, but under his arm, at the thin skin along his ribs...he traced his tongue along that seam while dragging his nails down James' ribs and had to brace himself as Jame's hips surged up with a gasp. 

             Tony smothered a victorious smile and fisted a hand in James' hair, tugging hard enough for James to feel it despite his arousal.  "Be still, remember?" Tony chided, pleased at the slightly wild look in James' eyes as he swallowed and nodded.  "Good."  He leaned his head down to kiss him, turning his head to lick deep in James' mouth, claiming him, owning him, echoing his moan as their cocks brushed against each other.  Tony chased that sensation, rocking his hips against James', feeling the fine trembling of his body as James struggled to stay still and not thrust up against him.  Tony rewarded his control by reaching between them to finally touch James' cock, biting off another moan when he felt how wet he was.  "So eager, aren't you," Tony murmured against James' mouth as he ran his thumb over the head of his cock, drawing out more precome and making the glide of his hand over James' cock so slick and sweet.  "But you're being so good for me.  Christ, you're always good for me, aren't you?" 

            James struggled to keep his eyes open and focused on his captain, feeling like he was going to shake apart as he fought against the urge to move, to wrap his arms around Tony and rut against him until he reached the climax that was just out of reach. Tony's hand on him was too slow and too gentle and he was studying James' reactions intently, making him feel open and vulnerable and  _important_ , and James wanted to be good, wanted to live in the warm approval in his captain's voice, but  _he needed more._   There was the whine of distressed metal as James' hands tightened down on the headboard and he made a pleading noise deep in his chest, thighs tense with the need to move.  The space between their bodies grew wetter as his cock blurted more precome, pooling on his stomach.  He shivered with the overload of sensations as Tony's strokes stayed slow and steady but his breathing was fast and his mouth on James' body was rough and needy, biting along his neck and shoulder.  His captain was being gentle but James didn't want gentle, he wanted fast and hard, he wanted to feel it the next day, to see bruises and bite marks on his skin from the force of Tony's need.  " _Please,_ " he finally forced out.

            Tony's hand stilled, making James whimper and shiver from the loss of sensation. "What is it?"

            "Make it hurt," he pleaded.  The effect his words had on Tony was immediate; his eyes went dark and hooded, almost dangerous, and James could hear his heart start to pound.

            "Are you sure?" His voice was rough and gravelly, making James' toes curl. When James nodded he said, "Very well," and sat up, hooking his feet over James' knees to hold him still, to hold him down, and James' brain whited out a little at the sensation.  Tony's hand on him tightened and started to move faster and then there was pressure on his throat, cutting off his air.  The look in Tony's eyes was greedy and possessive as he watched, and when Tony finally said "come for me, James," he was helpless against it.  His orgasm raked through him like a wildfire as he spilled on his stomach and Tony's hand, hot pleasure making his world go dark around the edges as it pulsed through him, each wave slightly weaker than the last until he was left limp and gasping on the bed. Dimly he was aware of Tony's bit off curses as he came as well and he forced his eyes open to see him add to the mess on James' stomach.  Then he was capturing James' mouth in a messy kiss, his breath still fast and uneven.  "So good," he murmured as he tugged James' hands away from the headboard, eyes going hot again when he saw the damage James had done to it. "So beautiful, you're perfect, absolutely amazing," he said raking his hands through James' sweaty hair.  "The things I'm going to do with you," he added, smiling when James shivered at the dark promise in his voice.  

 

_April 9, 2003_

            James found his captain sitting in the living room watching the TV with narrowed eyes.  When James came around to see the screen he paused; across the screen marched the words “CAPTAIN AMERICA FOUND, STILL ALIVE AFTER 70 YEARS IN THE ICE.” On the left side of the screen was an image of a blond man in a ridiculously gaudy red white and blue uniform, staring off the screen with an intense look on his face.  On the right was the same man pale and still, surrounded by ice as he lay on a metal table. James frowned as his memory struggled to dredge up thoughts of rushed, illicit liaisons in tents and bombed out houses.

            “What do you remember?” Tony asked after a while, voice carefully remote. 

            “We were lovers.” At his words James heard his captain’s heart rate spike and he saw his hands clench into fists on his knees.  James sat on the floor next to him, leaning back against the couch and resting his head against Tony’s leg.  “But the memories are…colorless. Unimportant. I see them, but they don’t mean anything.”

            Tony nodded tightly and after a moment his hands relaxed and one moved to bury itself in James’ hair, massaging his scalp. “But this still is going to affect my plans, and that’s aggravating,” he said, scowling at the television. 

 

_April 23, 2003_

            Tony landed on the balcony in his battered Iron Man suit as James was rewinding and replaying his fall from the alien wormhole over and over, metal hand in a tight fist and plates calibrating with an angry buzz.  He heard the suit land outside and the door open and then footsteps padding closer, slowing to a stop when Tony saw what James was watching.

            James paused it with Tony’s body framed by the closing wormhole and stood, jaw tight and thoughts black with rage. “You. Left. Me,” he growled, stalking around the side of the couch towards his captain.

            “Yes, but I didn’t realize it was going to turn into, you know, a _thing,_ ” Tony said defensively, retreating in the face of James’ righteous fury.  “I thought it was going to be a quick mission, over to Germany then right back.”

            “And _that?_ ” James pointed to the image on the screen, remembering the terrifying feeling of knowing that Tony was inside a dead suit, perhaps dead himself already, falling like a stone to unforgiving concrete.

            “I know, _I know_ , I’m sorry, it was the only thing I could think to do.  They were going to blow up Manhattan! You would never have escaped in time!” Tony stopped when his back hit the bar and there was nowhere else to retreat.  “But look what I got.”  He held up a spear-looking thing with a bright blue stone in it. At James’ unimpressed look he said, “It allows you to control peoples’ minds. Can you imagine?”

            Yes, James could imagine, and he gave it a fierce glare.  “Destroy it.”

            Tony clutched it protectively to his chest, turning away as if he were afraid that James was going to take it from him.  “No, no – just think. What if, instead of using it to completely control a few people, I could figure out how to use it to influence a lot of people just a little bit? That could fast forward our plans by a decade!”

            James studied the staff again and took it from Tony, setting it down on the bar as he trapped Tony against the counter, bracketed him between his arms, the metal one still whirring and clicking from James’ agitation. “From now on, we go _together._ ”

            Tony framed James’ face in his hands and pressed a kiss to the angry line of his lips. “You know that’s not really possible.  We both have our parts to play before everything is over with, but I promise to never be that reckless with my own safety again. Ok?” James finally nodded, still scowling.  “And speaking of parts to play, I think it’s soon going to be time for you to meet Steve.”

 

_April 25, 2003_

            The first time Steve saw James was probably not the best way to break the news that his best friend and former lover was still alive.  There was no privacy or a gently said “Steve, you might want to sit down for this;” not even the ominous warning of “we need to talk.”  Instead, Tony roared up in his Audi, James in the side seat, to where the one guy was about to take his power-hungry brother home via an interdimensional portal.  Steve turned to watch Tony drive up, still saying something to Natasha with a small smile as Tony and James got out of the car.  But when he saw James, hair cut short and face impassive as he scanned the crowd in the park, wearing a pared down version of his combat rig, Steve's smile faded and he looked like he'd been punched in the gut. 

            In other words, it went exactly as Tony planned.

            “Bucky?” Steve said in wounded disbelief as they approached.

            "Bucky?" Tony echoed in false surprise, turning to look at James.  "Who the hell is Bucky?" 

             James' cool gaze flickered over to Steve, eyeing him from head to toe, then moved back out to watch the crowd. “My name is James.” 

            Tony turned to Steve, grin viciously triumphant.  “There you have it.  His name is James.”

            Steve gave Tony a narrow-eyed look and James shifted closer, giving Steve a warning look in return.  “Buck, we’ve known each other since we were kids.  I rescued you, we were in the war together-“

            “And then he fell from a train, and you left him for dead,” Tony finished.  He put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, frankly enjoying the  anguished, guiltylook on Steve’s face.  It was the truth but not the whole truth, and Steve couldn’t deny it without making it worse.  “I'm sorry, but it turns out the Russians found him, and sold him to Hydra.”

            Steve paled. “Bucky-“

            “My name,” James said coolly, but with finality, “is James.”

            “Right. James.”  Steve looked down at his hands, clearly at a loss. 

            Now that Tony had successfully managed to cut him off at the metaphorical knees, he could afford to take pity on him.  He guided him a little ways away for a bit of privacy.  “Look, Steve, this is clearly a lot to process right now, I think.  I’m sorry that this was…sprung on you in this way.”  Tony caught James’ eye and jerked his head.  James tilted his head and moved far enough away to indicate a respectful distance, but Tony knew that he could cover the distance with the speed of a snake if Steve made the wrong move.

            “You knew exactly what you were doing,” Steve said, voice low and angry. Tony saw James stiffen in the corner of his eye.  “You did this on purpose.”

            “Why would I do that?” Tony asked with a faint smile.  Never let it be said he was an ungracious winner.  “To hurt you? If I wanted to do that, Steve, I would show you the file that details everything that they did to him.  For years and years, while you were sleeping the time away in the ice.  It’s…unpleasant, it really is.  But I took him away from that, understand? I saved him.”  Tony put a hand on Steve’s slumped shoulders. _He’s mine_ , Tony thought with an icy, jealous fury that he kept from his face, wearing a look of sympathy instead. _Mine._   "Now let's finish what we were doing here, yeah?"

_October 31 st, 2004_

            “Don’t do this, Bucky,” Steve pleaded. James could see his shoulders strain against the magcuffs keeping his arms behind his back and didn’t bother to correct him. _Again_.  “Don’t help Tony Stark take over the country.”

            “Why not?”  James slung his rifle over his shoulder and pulled up his sleeve to check his watch.  Tony had said to make sure that Steve didn’t escape for at least an hour; they had about thirty minutes left then James could leave Steve to his own devices.

            “Wh-what? Why not?” Steve echoed incredulously.  “Because people deserve to choose their own leaders! Because that's tyranny, its-“

            “The current president lost the election by almost three million votes,” James said coolly as he leaned against the door, tapping his metal fingers against it idly. “You mean that kind of choice?”

            “That doesn’t give him the right to-“

            “Tony is going to bring this country into the 21st century instead of letting it remain mired in rampant capitalistic greed and toxic nostalgia for ‘better days.’” James had seen those days, even if it was mostly through the glass lens of a rifle scope. Nothing about them was better. “I’m not going to let you stop him.”

            “Even if thousands of people die?”

            “Yes.” The only ones who would die would be the people who fight, but that’s a choice they would make.  James had little sympathy for them.

            “Even me?”

            James scowled at Steve and squatted just out of reach so that he was eye level with him. “After you sacrificed your life to stop the Red Skull, this country turned around and dropped two nuclear bombs on Japan.”  Steve's lips tightened.  “That was the lesson they learned from you - do unto others before they can do unto you.”

            “Why are you telling me this?”

            “So you’ll understand what you are defending.” James stood and checked his watch again.

            Steve was quiet for a long time, staring at the magcuffs on his ankles. “Tony is forcing you to-"

            “No,” James said sharply, turning on his heel to face Steve, who looked up at him in surprise. “He has given me more choice than Hydra or the US Army ever did.  It’s been months for you, Steve, but seventy years for me.  Stop thinking I’m the man you knew before.”

            When he left, Steve curled up and rested his head on his knees. After twenty minutes the magcuffs clicked open and fell to the floor with a metallic ring.  Steve didn’t move for a long time after that, and when he did, his movements were slow and tired as he walked through the door.

 

_November 1, 2004_

            2004 wasn’t normally a presidential election year, but given the circumstances, it was agreed that a special election was needed.  After all, a quarter of the Senate, a third of the House, and most of the President’s cabinet turned out to be part of a secret organization that was steeped in the tradition of the Nazis, with terabytes of data detailing extensive propaganda campaigns, chemical and biological weapons research, even human experimentation. As the hero of Afghanistan, the man who brought Bin Laden to justice, and the man who risked his own life to reveal the cancer that had been growing at the heart of American politics, Tony Stark graciously accepted the responsibility of guiding the United States during this dark period in the nation’s history.  Standing in front of screaming crowds that filled the National Mall to capacity, he blew kisses to the crowd, a yellow tear shaped gem glinting on his watchband and his bodyguard a glowering shadow at his back.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAVE NEVER FOUGHT SO HARD WITH A SEX SCENE IN MY LIFE. I hope it satisfies; I was so close to just scrapping the whole thing and publishing the chapter with a "fade to black" scene instead. :P

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr, I'm on it](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/dracusfyre)


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